


it was never an accident

by intoxicatedclarity (windthorne)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windthorne/pseuds/intoxicatedclarity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which the reckless amber-eyed boy takes a journey to hold the headstrong ebony-eyed girl’s hand.</p><p>written for jeankasa week 2014, day 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it was never an accident

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: once again an old fic reposted. i'm proud of this, but mostly because i was able to write it even during one of the toughest weeks of my life. otp's, man.
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own snk

The first time his hand grazed against hers at the mess hall, it was merely an accident.

He was the age of the first time amber met ebony, and he was anything but a stable, ready man.

Wooden tables had the tendency to give him an itch in his veins, and one night, he had aimed to just drop his arm to his side, effectively hiding his reddened skin. But when his fingers landed just short of cold, soft hands that reminded him of obsidian and coal dust, he realized he had made a grave mistake.

_Shit._

Hearts stuttered in a quick flash of fulmination only seen in their eyes, and he pulled his arm back with reflexes that could almost rival hers—but she had also moved away in that instant. With his hand drawn behind his back and hers cradling her face, it was only reasonable that their eyes had connected in that instant, despite their bodies visibly moving away from one another.

Blood instantly rushed up to his face, and through the marred scarf that had been drawn up to her face, he could spot the red porcelain on her as well.

“Uh—um—sorry, Mikasa,” her name lit up fireworks in his abdomen, “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Her eyes blinked, showing a hint of—was that disappointment?—before her scarf fell from her face, pale lips separating to reply.

“It’s fine, Jean,” she lingered on his name just a second too long, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But did he really?

Later, Marco was staring at him with an amused look and words just waiting to spill: “All you did was touch her hand.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Sure.”

“No, really—“

 I know, Jean. It was just an accident.”

_It was just an accident._

But from then on, his hands steered clear of her, always just a little bit away from her, always hidden in his pockets, always running through his hair, always fisted against his heart and his back.

He didn’t want to touch her hand, didn’t  _deserve_  to. And it had nothing to do with germs and cleanliness.

It was just too soon.

This wasn’t just any small-village crush. This was Mikasa, the prodigy of an army and the one inevitably giving him strength even when neither had any idea.

And yet he couldn’t even say her name without a pounding heart that yearned to give out to her.

So what gave him the right to grasp her hand in his?

Absolutely none.

For now.

* * *

 He was three years a soldier and no more mature than he was before when his hand latched onto hers without thinking.

Trapped in the forest with the “big ass trees” and drenched in blood didn’t even change the fact that he had accidentally grabbed her hand.

Without thinking.

First, his stupidity led to a misleading touch, and now his foolishness has led to a full on interlock of fingers. He wanted nothing more than to run into bark at that point.

They were dashing back and forth between trees, back to camp where they were needed, with gear broken and their legs taking over. They had a faulty collision just a moment earlier, leading to this imminent sprint in the forest that was very much necessary if they desired to get back to their alive comrades.

In spite of everything, his adrenaline was at an all time high, and maybe that was why he was able to keep up with her for so long. And maybe that was why he felt so superior and almighty, and maybe that was why he grabbed her hand amidst it all and ran further, faster, stronger.

And somehow they had made it back without any obstructions—safe and sound, peaceful just as it was when they were soaring in the air.

The moment they both noticed that their fingers were connected was when he realized that he was way too reckless for his own good.

With the way she was blushing as bright as her scarf at their fingers, it was only sensible that she was embarrassed by their little hand-holding.

Stupid, he was so stupid.

“Sorry again,” he quickly let go and backed about five steps away, “It was an accident, I, uh—I didn’t mean to. Again. Uh. Sorry.”

And it wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t read her expression. She was the girl worth a hundred soldiers after all.

“It’s fine, Jean.” She repeated again with poignant and eerie clarity.

In the nights after that, he spent a few moments here and there contemplating over what he did wrong.

Stolen glances and held gazes were often shared between them, but they only added to the growing evolution of… whatever the hell they were.

He wished Marco was still there to help him out.

But unfortunately, this was a journey he had to go through by himself.

* * *

 Five years he had driven into crimson and tattered uniforms, five years he had displayed courageous behavior and impeccable battle skills, five years he had lost and lived and cried and died.

Five years and he still didn’t have the guts in him to hold her damn hand again.

“ _You’re a fucking weenie_.” As the wise man Connie told him.

And he was definitely right.

All of their encounters had been a complete accident. He never expected any of these incidents to happen to him.

Nor when he grabbed her wrist with noticeable strength in the moment they were going to be separated.

Their close squad was being pulled apart to be guides to the new squads, in hopes that it would help in the battle that raged in the outside world. With their squad being the only officially skilled and experienced soldiers, it was only sufficient to separate them in order for balance and learning.

But it irked him that he had been put with Sasha, and she had been put with Armin. How could he protect her if they weren’t together?

So it was  _only_  coincidence that he had quickly snatched her wrist, pulling her back to him when she was about to walk away.

Her voice was vibrant yet startled. “Jean, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, just hold on,” he didn’t stutter this time, words firm. “Wait.”

Somewhere in that moment it seemed as if his stature had improved, his words were steady, and his voice was indeed endearing.

(Somewhere in the back of her mind, she started to notice just how much he had changed.)

“I just wanted to tell you, before you go,” his grip on her wrist loosened only slightly,

“Please stay safe.”

The way she stared up at him (when did she get so short?) made the fireworks stir, almost.

But then his hand was no longer at her wrist, and his grip was no longer intact, instead to be replaced by a sudden burst of coolness and life, clutching his fingers firmly. He glanced down to see that both her hands had wrapped around his single one, tightening with certainty.

 _Fireworks_ were _bursting._

“Don’t worry,” ( _explosions_ ) “I’ll be fine, Jean. Always.”

His name sounded like iron dropping from sweetened lips, and it took another moment before either of them were willing to let go.

He believed her.

* * *

The next time his hand touches hers, it is no longer an accident.

He is now eight older than his first glance of her, and he is finally reaching for her now.

Before he can even blink, his whole world is spinning and his heart is on the brink of shattering. Comrades drop before his eyes and squads disappear without an explanation as to why. Friends are ripped to pieces and enemies are nowhere to be found.

And before he can break, he drops his hand right on top of hers. Right in the mess hall where the wood used to give him itches, in the mess hall where no one is around and it’s just them, in the mess hall with only blood running through their veins that desire to run through another soul’s.

Her hand is numb and cold, mummified and complex, because lives have been taken out before her and it includes her only family that had emerald eyes and blonde hair.

His hand is bleeding warmth, soulless and purified, because despite it all, he still hasn’t given up, even with all the worlds that have wanted him dead and gone.

His fingers wrap around hers, nimble and lighter than fallen wings, leaking safety and protection and devotion through his touch. Hers reciprocated, letting all of it come in and letting none fly away into the stars.

And when he grabs her hand and kisses it with all the necessity in the world, he wonders why they had taken so long to let someone in.

“Mikasa,” the fireworks burst and enlighten the sky, and her eyes see them all, “It was never an accident.”

Her eyes drip wonder. “What wasn’t?”

Memories of reddened cheeks and young eyes crawl through his mind, and he lets out a smirk.

“This.” His index finger aligns itself with the beat of her heart, sitting in her wrist. “All of this.”

She lets out a faint smile and a breath. “Took you long enough…”

He smiles, broad and radiant. “I know.”

There’s a moment of silence as he stares at their fingers, and then his words spill with affection.

“Falling for you,” he links his fingers in hers and pulls her in his grasp, “It wasn’t an accident. It never was.”

And she lets him hold her close when she whispers into his ear: “Then let’s keep falling.”

_Until we can’t anymore._


End file.
